Michael Fante

The leaves began falling a week ago, but the heat lingered. It had been a hot October. Not one that is warm but one that is hot. The type that, when opening windows at night, won’t cool down your place. Yet, the leaves had started falling. Maybe the trees do not like the longer nights. It could be that the extended darkness took their color.

Michael Fante sat facing the open window in his wooden chair. It creaked when he adjusted from one ass cheek to the other. When he inhaled, his cigarette hissed in the night like a black cat—the night moved slowly, if at all. What was our hero thinking about?

“I’ve shed more tears for that felled tree than my mother’s death.” He pointed at it with the cigarette and said it to nobody in particular. 

He should not care for that felled tree. He shouldn’t even be looking at the stump. He should be getting to bed. Besides, that tree was a Redwood tree planted in the suburbs forty miles outside its natural habitat and surrounded by poorly managed tufts of Bluegrass. Why does he concern himself with a domesticated Redwood? Just look at the other ones still standing in the yard. Their trunks are ghostly white from the irrigation. It is odd that our irrigation bleaches them so. Maybe our kids shouldn't play in it.  

“It ain’t right.” Michael had reached down to grab something. He grunted past the empty whiskey glass, serpentined past the empty bottle on its side, and grabbed the grape-sized Redwood cone. He took it in his hand and looked at it one last time. He was angry when he threw it into that unseasonably warm October night. “It Propagated, you bastards!” 

He yelled into the night, almost falling out of his chair. The town did not listen. Instead, it remained distracted by sleep. What did Michael Fante mean by “It propagated?” Is he telling us that a domesticated Redwood germinated with a neighbor? Or should I say, “Got it on with a neighbor?” Well, that has got to be a real swell thing. It's probably such an extraordinary event that it can make a man like Michael Fante cry.

Michael Fante sat at a red light, looking to turn right. The street sign dangling from the traffic light read, “Jack London Blvd.” The light turned green, and the car in front of him turned right. Michael Fante gripped his steering wheel tightly and moaned, “Why did you wait on the red, Martin Eden? We could have been building a fire by now for the love of life. I wish I could shove my Iron Heel up your ass, you gray Buick.”

Quite the extensive knowledge of Jack London literature, my little Mickey! In your fit of road rage, you rattled off four outstanding works of art. Continuing, it must be said the events at the light were frustrating but by no means something that should rattle our hero into such a fuss. Michael Fante took a deep breath and wanted to say more but calmed himself. He just had to get to the bar. His sole mission was half a mile away, and everything will be okay. 

“Erg, if everyone drove like me, there would be no accidents.” Oh boy, he couldn’t let it go. “Seriously! If everyone drove like me, we would be accident-free. Ain’t that a thought? How can people be so different than me behind the wheel? What character gets into a fender bender? What ghoul runs a red light? We all learned the same rules and took the same tests. What changed in the years of driving? Is there no sense of responsibility or no fear of the consequences? I must be wiping my ass differently than everyone too!”

It felt good to say out loud. We all know that. It can feel delicious to yell from behind the wheel. It doesn’t feel so good to yell beneath it, though, does it? 

Michael Fante rolled up his window because the warm night had finally cooled. He sat quietly and asked himself if he was a bitter and biased man. He scoffed at the thought and broke the silence in his car, “Ha, and my enemies aren’t the same?”

The bar was nearly empty. The bartender knew Michael but not the other guy at the end of the bar. The bar was nearly empty because it was Wednesday and One AM. “Guinness or an 805 tonight, Michael? What will it be, ol’buddy ol’pal?” It was Jameson, neat.

Michael sat and sipped. He looked out the open door at the sleeping town. The parking lot was empty, save for a few cars. Lord knows where their owners are tonight. In the sky, the moon bled something strong. It spilled out onto the gutters and dewed grass. A big grunt came from behind the bar. Michael spun in his chair toward the irritating sound of someone in pain. It was the bartender grabbing at his lower back.

“What is it, Dougy Boy?” Michael Fante asked. “Getting old, too?”

“It’s my sciatic nerve,” said the Bartender, ”Ain’t aging like you, Mickey ol’buddy ol’pal.”

Raising his glass, “Get old with me,” said Michael.

The man at the end of the bar raised his glass. Dougy Boy poured himself some Tully Dew, and the three shared a drink on that cooling October night.

There are fifteen minutes until closing. Dougy Boy is pouring out the coffee no one drank, throwing away the oxidizing limes, wiping away a permanent stain, checking the clock, turning off the porch lights, and listening in to Michael Fante, who has struck up a conversation with the stranger at the end of the bar. “Diablo is my name,” the stranger says with one hand on his heart, “I come from the hills. You ask why they call me Diablo. Do you think my Mother named me poorly?” He turned his shoulders to face Michael Fante. His eyes were obsidian black, and Michael felt the heat. “I only play wit you! Okay, Okay, they call me Diablo because when I come down from the hills, I bring that hot wind.” Diablo proceeded to fart.

Michael Fante frowned and turned away from Diablo, who was laughing out of his stool. Dougy boy shrugged as he mopped the bar floor. It disappointed Michael Fante because he was invested in the story. The hills Diablo was referring to are shrouded in wonderful folklore. Michael Fante watches them from his window, imagining the oak-covered ridges concealing fairytales to be found. Still laughing, Diablo stumbles into the October night, drunk and smelling of sulfur. Dougy Boy gives Michael the O’ so familiar thumb.

The next day, Michael Fante went out for coffee. On the way to the coffee shop, Michael Fante asked himself if he had slept the previous night. He smelled one pit and got a hint of Jameson between the hairs. 

The coffee shop is nice but sterile in that millennial way. Michael Fante liked the espresso, and that is what mattered to him. Plus, the baristas backflush the group heads after ten thirty, so Michael Fante doesn’t have to drink the morning rushes backwash. A seat was open, but our hero offered it to a petite Asian girl. However, on further investigation, he noticed a bulge in her pants. 

“Just take it,” Michael said, totally flustered.

“Thanks,” the Petite Asian said, batting their eyelashes. Michael Fante did not see one of the eyelashes fall into the Petite Asian’s cappuccino. 

So he took the shot on the standing counter. The attractive and youthful baristas glared at him. What did they think of poor Michael Fante? Did they even think he noticed their gorgeous eyes beaming into his soul? Anxiously, Michael Fante tried to shake off their stares by turning on his elbow to look at the rest of the shop. He noticed a red-billed ball cap with writing on it reading, “Mama’s favorite Drunk.” Very slick.

He was talking to his tattooed girlfriend. She wore a plaid skirt, fishnets, Tuledai spring punk style thick-soled Oxford shoes, with a finely tattered Joy Division shirt covered by a leather jacket and topped with a pink Gavroche cap. The two sex-crazed lovers were having a good laugh, so good that they were leaning into the table to say some naughty comedy. Their pretty little button noses scrunched up with every snorting laugh. Mama’s favorite Drunk had both hands on the table, leaning in, his girl shaking her head, smiling with her pearly whites, eyes closed, listening to the perfect joke. What was the orgasmic conclusion to the joke? Should Michael Fante turn away? Mama’s favorite Drunk didn’t look over to make sure anyone was listening; his perfect punchline was here, the tip of his tongue. He whispered. She giggled.

“If you want to rape me, tie me down and keep me hard!”

There was no sense in looking for a job. Michael Fante couldn’t look the part, speak the part, or know what to do with the part. He wasn’t an ugly man, but certainly not a handsome one. He also wasn’t short, but is five-eleven tall? Poor Michael Fante was a victim of the absence of free will. A haircut, a shave, and a daily walk could change a lot for his life, but he doesn’t because those are activities Michael Fante does not partake in often. His reasoning is his determinism. If he were born with wheels, he’d be a bicycle, he tells Dougy Boy.

All these factors have made Michael Fante a shy and socially anxious man. Middle schoolers get the better of him in any name-calling bout, girls quickly spin around on their heels and give Michael Fante a view of the back of their perfectly combed and shampooed head, and men respect him like they would a gay son. This has led Michael Fante to sit on a bench near the fountain. The downtown is never quiet at noon, not because it is busy with window shoppers but because commuters use it as a main artery. 

“Say, why are you looking so down?” Asked a man. He was standing with his arms crossed in a light gray suit. 

“I only look down because you are up.”

“You’re a funny dude,” said the man. He produced a business card from his blazer pocket, “A funny man can sell anything.”

“I’m not interested,” replied Michael Fante.

“You mean you’re not interested in competitive pay and sales bonuses?”

“Look. I just want to sit here. Okay, buddy?”

“If cold calling is what you’re worried about—Look, it’s really not that bad.” He wasn’t convincing Michael Fante!

“Just think about it, Mr.Glum.”

Michael Fante didn’t need Mr.Blow Dried Hair’s pity. Sales were for scum, and Michael Fante was muck, not scum. He was the sort of muck kids love finding in tidepools. A muck with a slimy shine that leaves a lasting impression. We should all strive to be an impressional glob of muck. 

Michael Fante did not want to be in the town. He hated seeing the pulse of the commute. The town never lived for itself. It was a place to lay your head at night and get up early to join the other commuters on the highway. It depressed Michael Fante, but he wasn’t willing to live in the city. It moved too fast for the aging Mr.Fante and stunk to high heavens. Plus, Michael Fante was tired of dads telling their kids to throw quarters at him when he took a break on a park bench.

“Why don’t I go into the hills,” Michael Fante asked himself. It would just be one night and cooler in the hills, maybe even cold. He missed the cold. I think we all did by October. So it was. Michael Fante stormed home, packed up, and drove to the town's residential reservoir. This dragon-shaped lake is nestled away in the hills. The mountains look down on the lake like a dog at a water bowl. Pine trees line the ridges of the mountains, giving a scraggly look. The billowing green Oaks running up the lower slopes sort out the mess-of-a-do. 

The state of Mexico swims along the shore. Nary, a German or Englishman, will be seen swimming the lake. Only the unaccounted and undocumented mingle at this watering hole. This never bothered Michael Fante because he wasn’t an angry man. The best way to describe Michael Fante’s view of the world was that of a tragic romantic.  

The Ranger at the Kiosk asked, “What could I do you for, Partner?” Michael Fante didn’t want him to do anything to him. He asked for a campsite, but the Ranger said it was full. He asked for a backpacking site, but the Ranger said he couldn’t issue a permit on the day of. Michael Fante asked if there was anything he could do. The Ranger asked if he wanted to fish, to which Michael replied, “Why not?” The Ranger said, “Perfect,” and held out his hand for Michael’s fishing license. Michael informed the Ranger that he did not have a license. The Ranger looked solemnly at Michael, trying to think what the public land could offer this lonesome man. “Say! You could park and look around,” suggested the Ranger. To which Michael Fante began to drive up, but the Ranger hollered at him to stop.

“What is it now,” cried Michael Fante.

“It’s twenty bucks to park and look around,” said the Ranger.

“Is it free to turn around and leave,” Asked Michael Fante. The Ranger hit a button, and the arm of the gate lifted. He told Michael to have a good day. Our hero could only muster a lift of a few fingers off the steering wheel in thanks. 

Michael lived in an old studio in an old part of town. The studio was attached to a Victorian with four other individual units. He liked his unit because it had a cast iron wood stove from the 1890s. He was a slave to this stove. He cared so much for it because it boiled his kettle, kept his toes warm, and even cooked sirloin to keep Michael Fante strong. However, the summer has no use for a wood stove. The poor thing just idly waits for Michael Fante to feed and fan it. 

That being said, Michael Fante never ignores his iron master. Usually, after dinner, he can be seen cleaning the cast iron. Smoothing the imperfections from the copper-smelling lid, tending, with care and obedience, to the supple but slender iron legs, and picking with his fingernails between the toes of the leg to get the iddy-bittiest morsel of dust out. Oh, and what about that flute? “Isn’t it perfect?” Michael Fante asked us. Look at the dents, dimples, and depressions against the perfect metal of blackness. And there is his skin from last Christmas! When he leaned his brow against it one drunken evening. His brow stuck to the molten tube. The skin was tan then, now an orange and black material crisp.  

Unexpectedly, it began to rain outside. He watched the greyness fall over the town, evacuating the depth and angles from every object. The town became one-dimensional. He watched it fall. The first rain smelled dirty at first. Scents from the summer having been soaked for the first time, but eventually, that nostalgic smell of asphalt lifted Michael Fante into blissfulness. He saw the rain as it was. Therefore, he saw the rain as it was everywhere. He could say that he had seen it rain in Paris and Jakarta because had he not? Where does rain fall differently? 

The orange and yellow leaves fell from the trees with the rain. He had to leave the town. This freshness, this bath, this washing was only ephemeral, concealing the town. Get up, Michael Fante. Your boots aren’t so heavy. Your head is not so foggy. Pet your iron master and say goodbye, au revoir, Auf Wiedersehen, arrivederci! You are clean and polished. You won’t need Michael Fante today, my-oh-my little perfection from antiquity.